


Homecoming

by ticklishivories



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 03:50:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6549388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ticklishivories/pseuds/ticklishivories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It occurs to him suddenly that he had no plans beyond entering Minrathous and finding Dorian. There’s no guarantee that Dorian is even in the Magisterium right now, or that asking strangers for the leader of the most notorious resistance group in Tevinter won’t end with his head in a basket."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> this was part of an art exchange for roxoah's inquisitor Ivran! you can check out their blog here
> 
> http://roxoah.tumblr.com/
> 
> to clear something up, ivran is not the inquisitor in roxoah's universe, and is a mage that dual wields a sword and a staff. very unique! eue

From a map, the Tevinter Imperium does not look intimidating; surrounded on all sides by political strongholds, the dynastic Nevarra to the south and the plutocratic trading empire of Antiva to the east, the nation appears ready to fall into the Nocen Sea. Beyond the horror stories Ivran grew up with, the historical texts he’s read, he had little else to construct a clear image of what the imperium could be. Even Dorian wasn’t of much help, despite his passion for his homeland.

Ivran sees the golden city of Minrathous rise over the flat-line sky like a cresting hilltop from the Imperial Highway. He’s stunned; its grandeur is nothing like he’s ever seen, rivaling the glittering palaces of Orlais. Castles with spires like obsidian spears pierce through skies. Archways and columns that lead to no definitive destination seem built for the sole purpose of looking glamorous, and as he’s pushed into the city by the market crowds and clamoring carts Ivran is overwhelmed by how small he feels. His head tilts back to stare at the caryatids of Andraste, her solemn eyes that gaze down at him quiescently, lips pursed and hands raised in prayer. He admires the marble statues from an artistic viewpoint, but spares them no extra thought as the traffic of people sweeps him down the paved streets towards the city center.

The Magisterium.

What Ivran knows he’s looking at is the Imperial Senate, admittedly an unassuming courthouse on a raised hill between the Imperial Chantry and Circle of Magi. But it’s guarded by cloaked men with staffs like scepters and eyes emptier than the statues of Andraste, and far more intimidating than a marble deity.

Would Dorian be in there?

Ivran spins the ring around his finger while he thinks. He’d left his jewels and trinkets in Skyhold, afraid that they might’ve been taken on his journey, but he allowed himself the one silver ring that Dorian gave him before he left for Tevinter.

_‘I’ll see you again, won’t I?’_

_‘I promise.’_

He promised.

Two years later, that promise hasn’t been fulfilled. Ivran needs more than empty words sealed in an envelope.

It occurs to him suddenly that he had no plans beyond entering Minrathous and finding Dorian. There’s no guarantee that Dorian is even in the Magisterium right now, or that asking strangers for the leader of the most notorious resistance group in Tevinter won’t end with his head in a basket. He stares up at the courthouse, frozen. The marble pillars are ancient, the steps to its entrance cracked and worn by centuries of ascending feet. Maybe he could take on the guards. He reflexively grabs the pommel of his sword, hidden under the veil of his cloak. No, that’d be ridiculous. There’s too many. Maybe there’s a backdoor he could sneak through.

He doesn’t have time to decide.

_“Hey.”_

The voice is loud and gruff. His spins on his heel and slams face-first into a bulky armored chest.

Three towering shems block Ivran in on all sides. Rapid-fire Tevene is exchanged between them and Ivran can’t follow, can’t even get a word in. They have daggers that catch the light of the sun in a flat, dull glint– poison. Their shouting grows louder, and then they’re spitting the words in his face and bearing him down with their towering height and black eyes. Ivran digs his teeth into his lip. He’s outmatched; the only way to win this fight is to run. His hand flies to his sword belt.

Shouts explode around him. One man immediately snatches his hand away from his weapon and lifts it up, dragging Ivran’s toes across the ground; the other two seize his sword from his belt and bind his other hand behind his back. He twists and writhes, kicking his legs as the ground falls out from under him.

The man with the iron grip around his wrists looks him in the eye and sneers. Ivran recognizes one word and his blood chills.

_Slave._

He realizes his hood is pulled back from his head, revealing two long, pointed ears, and the unmistakable lightning blue of his vallaslin.

He knows what’s happening before the man barks an order. Cold panic spreads across his features and his control slips before he can stop himself.

“Let _go_ of me!”

A tangible wave of energy erupts from the point where his wrist is lifted, and it punches through their chests and knocks them all to the ground. Ivran is dropped, and before the men can gather their senses he picks himself up, steals his sword and bolts.

But he’s already at a disadvantage. He’s an elf in a strange place, at the center of the slave trading empire, and there are no trees, nothing he could possibly climb and gain a vantage point of where he is. He desperately scans the stony inclines, vertically smooth and flat, no possible purchase. The streets are narrow and so full of people he can’t push passed them without bruising his shoulders. It’s almost like the buildings were tactically positioned to obstruct runaways from escaping.

He comes to a dead end and curses. It’s not long before he’s caught, and not three, but six men now back him into the wall. His sword is unsheathed and he brandishes its glowing tip at his pursuers.

One of them comes forward and, to Ivran’s bewilderment, speaks to him in Elven.

“Lower your sword, foreigner. You’re outnumbered.”

The shock is enough to lower his guard. He tilts his sword down a fraction, but his legs stay poised and tense. These people are undoubtedly slave traders, and he has better things to do than get captured and sold to some noble.

“What do you want, shem?” He can’t hold his tongue. “Back off, or I’ll run you through.”

The man raises one of his hands, palm up, but the other rests comfortably over his knife belt. Ivran reaffirms his grip on his sword.

“You wear the insignia of the House of Pavus. What are you to the Magister? A pet?”

Ivran does not let the hard line of his mouth falter as he thinks. His eyes drop to the silver snake curling around his finger then flick back up. There is no right answer.

“I’m an emissary,” he states in plain speak. “Lord Pavus and I are unacquainted.”

They aren’t buying it. A man in the back hisses something in Tevene, gesturing with a jerk of his head to the sword, Ivran’s travel worn clothes, and experienced fighting stance. Ivran takes the chance to plan a maneuver out of the alley, using the ancient greasy walls to escape.

The man pulls out his knife but holds it casually. “Come with us. We will not harm you if you cooperate.”

He’s going to lose if he fights. He’s going to lose if he doesn’t.

“There’s no need to worry. You’ll be put in a nice home. If you’re lucky, Magister Pavus might even buy you back.

In elven. _“Fuck you.”_

The flash of surprise in the man’s eyes reveals his understanding, and he readies the knife and his stance. The men behind him prepare for a fight and unsheathe their swords and daggers.

Ivran doesn’t wait for them. He charges.

Two vanish into stealth; that’s a problem. If he had time he’d lay electric traps for them to run into. He focuses on cutting through the front line, pushing himself off the walls to add force behind his parries. All of them have the advantage in height and size. But they’re not fighting to kill. Their poisoned knives jab for any piece of skin they can reach and it’s sloppy, easily avoided. Ivran cuts for the openings at their waists and legs, buckling two at the knees, another in the backlash of his whirlwind strike. They crumple in heaps, limbs splayed, blood splashing under his boots in dark pools.

He comes out at the other end of the alley. Some see the skirmish and hustle by with their eyes up, heads turned. He’s panting. His right arm shakes, numb. He frowns at it in annoyance. There are two shallow gashes. _Fenhedis._ He wasn’t careful enough. In five minutes he won’t be able to run or fight. He needs to kill them all, now.

Ivran turns. He feels the cold vertigo, the looseness of his limbs and his shifting vision. When one emerges from stealth, dagger at his stomach and ready to run him through, he doesn’t react quickly enough. The blade pierces the surface of his skin and slices to the hip.

Ivran drops his sword. Hot blood oozes through his clothes, drips over his fingers as he tries to hold it back. The three remaining men surround him. He’s still standing, knees trembling, but his eyes blaze with venom.

Static tingles at his fingertips. The magic charges in the air before igniting with a silent, blinding spark, and three bolts of lightning strike the remaining shems through with a powerful ringing crack. The smell of burnt flesh sticks to his nose.

But it doesn’t kill them. Paralyzes, briefly, but they get up. Ivran sinks to his knees.

They shout something before he blacks out. _Incaensor._ He faintly remembers the word shouted at him by a Venatori agent long ago, and Dorian’s face when he’d asked what it meant.

A magic using slave.

***

He wakes to a tight, warm feeling in his gut, and heavy, lethargic limbs. Under his bare back is silk that’s hard with sweat long since cooled. There’d been sheets covering his legs but they’re tangled at his feet. He swallows the cottony dryness in his throat and tries sitting up.

There’s a stretch in his stomach, some resistance, but no pain. He rests his hand over the bandaged wound. The others on his arm have been cleaned and wrapped, too. He guesses he’s been asleep a few hours, long enough to wash the poison from his system at least. Ivran peels off the bandages and looks around.

The bed he sits on is ornate, made in mind to occupy a noble guest or someone of high social standing. The embroidery in the sheets is Orlesian, trimmed at the ends with gold. Royale sea silk makes up the fine material of the duvet. Everything in the room is exquisite. Luxurious furnishings of mahogany, polished and unused, make themselves known in their precise eye-catching arrangement, with the coffee table the focus at the center. Atop it is a plate of biscuits and a goblet of…wine? Subtle yet tasteful. Ivran can read the implications all over it: eat, drink, relax. There’s nothing to fear.

Naturally he’s tense and already searching the room for a weapon. He slowly slings his legs off the bed, careful not to adjust any springs. His toes barely touch the floor when the heavy door at the opposite end of the room swings open.

“He’ll be rather hungry once he wakes, so make sure to add plenty of meats– ah! You’re awake. Excellent.”

Ivran scoots back on the bed. He’s cornered: no weapons, no escape. Shit.

The woman that sweeps into the room is gorgeous– stunning in her height and the grace with which she moves her long limbs that barely peek out of her robes. Her blond hair spills in gentle curls over her shoulder. She smiles at Ivran, lips full and soft.

“I’m Magister Maeveris Tilani, daughter of the former Magister Athanir Tilani. And you’re quite the lucky elf!”

“Where’s my sword?” says Ivran, who hasn’t relaxed an inch. His eyes are steely, hard. Maeveris’ gaze softens.

“Don’t worry, your sword and the few belongings you had are all accounted for. I’ll return them as soon as possible.”

He raises a brow. Maeveris…why is that name so familiar? As he stares, she comes forward and bends to take a biscuit from the tray. She eats and speaks shamelessly as she chews.

“Those slave hunters, we’ve been tracking them for weeks. Nasty sorts of men, all of them. Skilled as well, which is why it took so long to wipe them out. They’ve been kidnapping elves from their homes all over Thedas– including here in Tevinter. You were their most recent target. These are their quarters. Do you like them?”

She moves to sit by Ivran on the bed and he leans as far away as possible. Either she does not notice his apprehension or deliberately ignores it, but Maeveris offers him a sweet that he silently denies. She pops it into her mouth.

“You’d killed nearly all of them before they spirited you away. It led us right here. I’m assuming you’re a foreigner? I would have heard of such a talented fighter as yourself. Tell me your name.”

Ivran purses his lips. Her powerful eyes bore into his, but he says nothing. The presence of the two guards at the door is weighty. He remains still, until she retracts.

“All right, then can you tell me how you got that ring?”

He starts, and looks at his finger to make sure it’s still there. He breathes out a sigh, and twists it idly.

“It…was given to me.”

“By whom?”

Ivran meets her gaze.

“You know.”

Her lips curl and reveal her rows of teeth. “So it’s true? You really are Dorian’s husband?”

Ivran’s stoic face crumbles. “What-”

She springs off the bed and rushes to the guards. “Bring him! I don’t care what he’s doing, he’ll try to make an excuse but you will drag him here by the ear if you have to.”

Maevris is bubbling over, ecstatic about something that Ivran doesn’t understand. He’s still stuck on her name. Maeveris. Maeveris Tilani. It’s so familiar that it’s driving him insane–

And then he remembers. He remembers holding those letters in his palms, the swirling cursive that he both loathes and loves with all of his heart, the countless times he’s read them just to hear the voice the words recalled until the meaning was lost. The name, Maeveris Tilani, Dorian’s partner in their rebel insurrection group, the Lucemi.

He remembers just as she’s gone, the door slamming behind her bright grin, and Dorian is taking her place.

He smiles warmly.

“Hello, Amatus.”

Ivran falls off the bed.

Dorian hurries to his side and helps him back up, his laughter shaking his whole body. Ivran inclines towards him and wraps his arms around his neck. His head fits perfectly in the crook of Dorian’s neck, like it always has.

“You should be more careful, the poison must still be in your system,” says Dorian, pulling them both on the bed. He secures his arms around Ivran’s back.

“It’s not that. Your hair shocked me.”

“My-” Dorian takes a lock in his fingers and grins. “It hadn’t occurred to me how long it’s grown.”

“You fit the part of an Evil Magister perfectly.”

“Don’t I? It’s a requirement of the job. Criminally good looks, that is.”

They look at each other. The distance, the years between them falls away. Ivran kisses him deeply. His fingers tangle in Dorian’s long hair and pull him closer with an almost harsh tug. He’s been thinking of this for so long, and as he feels Dorian’s lips move against his he remembers those awful nights where he ached to be held so much he could not sleep. He’s already getting lost in it, swept up in the tide of their touching skin, and Dorian is too, chin tilting and lips trembling. Large warm hands move up Ivran’s waist, sliding over his back to cup behind neck. The small noise he makes comes out as desperate, shattered.

“I cannot begin to tell you how much I’ve missed you,” Dorian breathes between kisses. He steals several more, trailing them down the curve of his neck, wet and fleeting. Ivran closes his eyes.

“Show me.”

A hand pushes him down. Ivran’s body adjusts on the sheets, and he smiles up at Dorian.

Dorian, whose eyes glister with delight, presses a finger to Ivran’s lips and says, “Wait.”

Ivran has waited years for this. The thought of waiting a second longer might make him scream. He kisses the finger, urgently, doing his best to convey to Dorian his desperation.

But Dorian moves his hand from Ivran’s lips to his stomach. A wrinkle creases his brow. The wound is healed, the poison gone, but a soft white line mars the brown skin. Tightness pulls at the muscles there, but otherwise Ivran feels nothing when Dorian’s hand presses down.

“How is it?”

“I’m fine.” Ivran plays with one of the strands of black hair splayed on his stomach.

“I was the one that healed you. It was just a quick patch up before we brought a better healer, but you were very ill. White as a wraith. I’m almost glad you weren’t conscious when I found you, because having you in my arms again…so infallible, a phantom pulled from a dream, it was too surreal…”

He swallows thickly, and his head slumps on Ivran’s neck, his breathing shallow. He melts into Ivran and Ivran holds him tight in the circle of his arms, nails digging into Dorian’s back, his heart hammering beneath his ribs.

“They were going to take you. I would have lost you and I’d never even know it.”

Ivran kisses the top of his head.

“You have me. I’m here.”

Dorian smiles against his skin and kisses him.

The silence they lapse into is content and warm. Touches are slow, exploratory, and new; Ivran feels a giddiness he hasn’t known since their first night together, during a time that seems from another life. Ivran tastes his sighs and pleas that blur with the pounding in his ears, the beating drum that keeps saying, loudly, _I love you, I missed you,_ again and again through his rushed kisses _._ Hopefully Dorian understands him, if he can control his elven. Dorian seals the door with magic and Ivran laughs against his mouth when he mutters something about Maeveris being nosy.

“You must properly introduce me.” Ivran resurfaces from the kiss like a drowned man. “Eventually.”

“…She almost didn’t believe me when I said you were my lover from the south. It always had a romantic, unbelievable air to it.” Dorian’s robes slip off his shoulders as he kisses down Ivran’s chest. “I was in such severe distress that she thought I was wounded. I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.” A kiss to the sternum. “Two years, and I suddenly find you poisoned and unconscious, in the clutches of some brutish slave traders-”

His breath fans out on the small white scar. Ivran’s fingers card through his hair, and as he stares at the ceiling, his vision blurs, like viewing the sun from the bottom of a pond. The sunburst tiles fracture and shimmer. He sucks in a deep, shaky breath. Dorian’s lips press below the scar.

“You should have told me you were coming.”

“I know. I didn’t think it through.”

Dorian’s nose nuzzles his inner thigh. The bristles of his mustache tickle Ivran’s skin, and the absurdity of it almost makes him laugh.

“Typical.”

Dorian’s lips never leave his body. Their passion is hurried, two years of delayed contact culminating into one frantic, irrepressible embrace. Wetness smears on the skin at Ivran’s neck where Dorian has made his home, and Ivran holds him, his fingers dancing along the nape of hair he used to love to tug. Ivran moans Dorian’s name, a promise in elven to be of one body and soul forever, and Dorian finishes moments after.

The second time, they possess even less control. Ivran shoves Dorian onto his back and grinds ruthlessly into his hips, and the protesting slats of the bed almost rival Dorian’s encouragements. Ivran becomes so lost in the warm push of their slick bodies that Dorian’s laughter is jarring, and he has to force his eyes to open and his jaw to move from its slack state.

“What?”

Dorian pulls away one of the hands on Ivran’s hips to cover his mouth. “Your hair. It’s- the static electricity-” He snorts. “I’m just glad you’re enjoying yourself so much, Amatus.”

Ivran’s hands fly to his hair and find that it’s rising into the air. He tampers it down, his cheeks hot and mouth frowning heavily.

“You’ve no right to tease. I’ll never forgive you for incinerating our pillows that one time.”

“You’ll never let me forget that, will you?”

Ivran bends down, their lips brushing when he speaks. “Never.”

Dorian makes love to him the third time. Piece by piece, he’s torn apart. The sheets are gone, and both of them are bare and open. Ivran takes in his body hungrily, with newfound admiration and desire, as the stormy grey eyes that bear him down expose his final layer of armor. Ivran holds his gaze and kisses him. They move together. He’s shivering hot, open thighs and wet everywhere, between his legs, the sweat on his flushed neck, the corners of his eyes. He wants to be closer. Dorian’s shoulders bunch under his hands, and he says something in his ear that makes Ivran’s back arch off the bed.

“I can’t-” Ivran hears himself gasp, and Dorian curses in Tevene. _“Dorian,_ emma la-”

He almost bites the tip of his tongue choking on his last cry. Dorian takes him through it, their hands twining together as he presses them onto the bed beside his splayed hair. Then Dorian stills, his body solid and taught over Ivran’s, a pleasant weight. Warm, liquid heat fills where they’re connected.

In the fading after-glow, when his jitters subside and his breathing regains some normalcy, Ivran tucks himself against Dorian’s chest. He’s so tired he can barely get a word out. Dorian is not much better. Sleep calls to them both.

“Will we able to do this…in your quarters?”

Dorian’s heavy eyes blink open. His fingers caress Ivran’s cheek. “Of course. I’ll show you as much as I can while you’re here.”

The question hangs between them. Ivran looks up, asking it, and Dorian’s frown is gentle.

“I’ll have you as long as you’ll have me.”

Ivran pulls his gaze down.

“A month. I’ll stay a month, if you’ll allow it.”

Dorian kisses his forehead. “Of course.”

They do not allow anyone to disturb them. For hours they sleep in each other’s arms.

Ivran has a dream that Dorian gets up to speak to someone at the door. He doesn’t know what was said, but Dorian returns to bed shortly after, and pulls Ivran against his body.

Ivran isn’t sure if Dorian’s broken _‘I love you’_ in his ear is real, but the profound feeling of happiness that it gives, mixed with the bone deep sadness he’s felt since Dorian left him, is undoubtedly real. He presses a light kiss to Dorian’s hand. Dorian returns the kiss to the back of his neck.

He says, “I’ll be here when you wake,” and Ivran smiles.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> i had a LOT of fun writing this, thanks for the opportunity!
> 
> it just occurred to me that i forgot to mention i've never read the da comics, so i had to assume literally everything about maeveris. i'm sorry if i didn't get the personality down D:


End file.
